In Your Absence

It’s two a.m. and I’m falling asleepon the line. I don’t remember what was said,but it must have been good. It musthave been pretty good, because ourlaughter is costly. “When I toldyou to run, I didn’t thinkthat you would.”

I broke your mug this morning.I tried to catch it, but it slidthrough my hands. It hit the cornerbut missed its mark.It spun—slow-motion, fast-crashlinoleum—and spreadacross my floor,making snow angelsin orange juice.I wanted to tell you,but I must have forgotten:

We carry so littleof ourselves these days.

Instead I keep you talking,just to avoid the factthat there is nothing left to say.Because silence is now an admission;absence is what makesthe mouth go. There are onlyso many words between us.Everything else is distance.

So I tell you to watch your step,as I allow my feet to dangle off the roof.Don’t look back until I tell you. RememberLot’s wife—she was the onewho looked back. She was the saltthat I tasted in your mouth.I want you to pretend that I am right therebeside you, breathing into your neckand grasping your hand; we walked behindthe corner store together,so I could place my mouth near yours.

I don’t want to sit on these shingles forever.The night has already heard our storytoo many times.

About The Author

Emma Croushore is a freshman at Christopher Newport University studying neuroscience. In the rare moments when she is not in the lab, she enjoys good music, strange movies and books with happy endings. She has also been published in Falling for the Story, an anthology published yearly by the Northern Virginia Writing Project